Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(20)

“Good. Could you—”

“Already asking maintenance to have it sent to seven.”

What the people who worked in Wayne Industries saw when they entered level seven…Luke knew his father paid them well. But he also knew that loyalties were bought in this town, which was why level seven mostly appeared to be an empty concrete chamber. Until a few buttons revealed it wasn’t.

“Thanks, Dad,” Luke said, pulling up the garage ramp and into the morning traffic that would likely make his two-mile drive an eternity.

He expected his dad to ask him about the bullet, so the next question caught him by surprise. “Will you be at the party on Sunday?”

“What party?”

“Our Labor Day party.” His dad added quietly, “No fireworks. Even from the neighbors. I made sure the town enacted a noise ordinance on behalf of the local wildlife.”

It meant more to him than he could say that his dad broached the subject for him and had gone to such lengths to make sure he was taken care of. So it filled him with no small amount of guilt as he said, “I can’t. I gotta work.”

His dad knew what he meant. “Even for one night?”

“Did Mom tell you to guilt-trip me?” Luke avoided the urge to honk at a car that idled in the left-turn lane while the green light came and went. Even with the Fox name attached to him, it didn’t erase certain realities. Like the fact that he’d been pulled over by a pair of cops last month, even when he’d been going the speed limit.

He could still see the two officers flanking his Porsche. Still feel the way the seams on the steering wheel dug into his palms as he kept his hands in clear sight, gripping hard against the fury seething in him. Still feel his pulse raging throughout his body as he spoke as clearly as he could, keeping his temper on a tight leash. He’d made sure to slowly, so slowly, reach for his wallet and registration.

But the moment the cops had seen his name and address that afternoon, their eyes widened. The officer on the driver’s side had gone brick red, his mouth tightening before he muttered an apology as if every word tasted like sour milk.

It had taken Luke a few hours to shake the tremors and simmering anger, so fierce his hands shook. Even now, it set his teeth on edge. And not just for himself.

“I am certainly not trying to guilt-trip you,” his dad said drily, “but I know precisely how sad your mother will look when I have to tell her you won’t be there, and I’m trying to avoid it.”

Luke sighed. “I would—but with Bruce away…I can’t.”

“Bruce came to the party last year. So did you. Who looked after Gotham then? Alfred?”

Luke clenched the steering wheel. “Why is it so important I go this time?”

A lengthy pause. “We might have invited a few young ladies who—”

Luke groaned. “Jesus, Dad. Really? Again?”

He loved his parents more than anything in the world, knew he was tremendously lucky to have them, but…they had been trying to set him up from the moment his boots had touched the tarmac at the airport. They often conveniently forgot his no-dating policy, too.

His dad chuckled.

Luke winced. “There’s been a string of high-end burglaries. Labor Day weekend seems like the perfect time to strike, with half the city away at the beach. Especially the rich ones.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound disturbed.”

His dad hummed. “The possibility of certain individuals being set loose from Arkham Asylum disturbs me. Someone robbing a few places? I’ll take that any day over the alternatives.”

Luke would, too. Major shit had gone down in Gotham City while he’d been overseas. He had no idea how Bruce had dealt with it alone.

“I’ll make it up to you—and Mom.”

“By going to the Gotham Museum Gala next week.”

Luke groaned again. “You have this all figured out, don’t you.”

His dad laughed. “I’m not CEO for nothing, you know.”

Luke managed about twenty feet of cruising down the broad avenue before traffic brought him to a standstill again. “Tell Mom I’ll go to the gala.”

And an event like that…An idea sparked, making his brain go rapid-fire more than any cup of coffee. Oh, an event like that might have some interesting opportunities.

“Good. Your mother and the young ladies will see you there.”

Despite himself, Luke laughed. “Fine, fine.” He grimaced at the traffic. “I’ll swing by your office in twenty.”

“Bring me a hot dog, will you?”

Luke’s brows rose.

His father said, “This spinach smoothie tastes like cold garbage.”

Luke chuckled all the way to Wayne Tower.



* * *



—

He didn’t find anything on the bullet. Not a trace. A ghost bullet.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—happened over Labor Day weekend. As if the criminals had gone to the beach, too.

Had everyone left town?

Luke felt like a jerk for even thinking it, but a week later, as he rode up the elevator of his apartment building, tux freshly pressed and in the garment bag dangling from his hooked fingers, the last thing he wanted to do was go to the annual Gotham Museum Gala in a few hours. The first event of gala season—the flashiest and most publicly broadcast.